Talkers.

There are two kinds of people in the world: talkers and listeners.

I am a listener. Here's why.

First, when I am talking, I generally get the impression that the listener doesn't give a rat's you-know-what about what I have to say. Understandable. But I also have a physical defect, that is, my brain and my mouth are not synchronized very well. I pause too often to compose my thoughts, or to consider whether or not I actually believe what I am saying. It's kind of like a guy driving a car and stopping every other mile to get directions. Annoying.

So the fall back position for non-talkers is listening, or at least hearing anyway, because sometimes we listeners listen with reluctance, to put it politely.

Generally though, I enjoy hearing words formed into sentences. I can listen to National Public Radio's fund-raising segments even though I am not concentrating on the words being said. There is a pleasant cadence to the voices. The same with baseball games. There is nothing quite like the sound of a good radio play-by-play man talking you through the game, moving in and out of silence with dancer-like precision. I envy these at-ease talkers who string words together without effort.

But, talkers need listeners and listeners need talkers. Put two listeners together and the silence can be very uncomfortable. Put two talkers together and, well, you know what that's like.

There is a popular story of two famous non-talking, men of letters, Samuel Coleridge and William Wordsworth, that sums up this listener's frame of mind. It goes like this:

"Wordsworth goes to visit Coleridge at his cottage, walks in, sits down and does not utter a word for three hours. Neither does Coleridge. Wordsworth then rises and, as he leaves, thanks his friend for a perfect evening." *

Now that is my idea of a good time.
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* Quote from Roger Rosenblott, Time Magazine essay, the Silent Friendship of Men

Santa Fe. In 36 Hours.

There are a dozen American cities in which I would like to spend a month or two. Santa Fe, New Mexico is one of them.

Years ago, my wife and I had the good fortune of visiting Santa Fe for a few days and loved it. Great local restaurants, small hotels with fireplaces, shopping, art, mountain vistas. And for me, old churches, Santa Fe, has some beautiful and historic ones.

I have mentioned, in previous posts, the New York Times feature 36 Hours. This week's city of focus is Santa Fe, and below are the spots they especially liked in their weekend visit.

• New Mexico History Museum ........................ Museum
• Canyon Road ................................................... Art
• Restaurant Martín ........................................... Restaurant
• Eldorado Hotel / Inn of the Anasazi ............... Hotels
• Santa Fe Farmers’ Market .............................. Farmers Market
• Vinaigrette ....................................................... Restaurant
• Mellow Velo .................................................... Bicycle rental. Maps.
• La Boca ........................................................... Restaurant
• Milagro 139 ..................................................... Entertainment
• San Marcos Café ............................................. Breakfast
• Jackalope ......................................................... Shopping
• Zocalo .............................................................. Homes

For the story, complete list, and descriptions go here: New York Times, 36 Hours in Santa Fe.

The Weather.

I have always been a bit puzzled by our fascination with the weather.

By "our," I mean the average American living in or near a large city, and not the farmer who depends on the right weather conditions for his livelihood. Weather to him means prosperity or poverty.

But for the rest of us: Why do a half-dozen local television stations have a weather segment in the morning, mid-day, evening, and late-evening news? Personally, my interest could be satisfied with one statement, once a day: "it's 65 in the DFW area and no precipitation expected." Or on the average summer day, "same hellish temperatures as yesterday, we'll let you know when it changes"

Who cares about the two degree difference between Dallas and Denton? How many viewers understand what a high pressure system is, or what a thirty percent chance of precipitation means?  Thirty percent of what? How dependable is the fifth day of a five day forecast? Not very, I say.

Then there is the Weather Channel itself and its "more meteorological than thou" attitude. Honestly, I hate the Weather Channel. Smug WASP bastards. They act like it is their weather, that they understand the hidden secrets of weather forecasting, and that they will dispense their wisdom to the lowly masses as an act of kindness.  Like Prometheus bringing us fire. 

And another thing. I don't like the newsman's restrained excitement when the weather is really bad, like in a hurricane. It seems to me that they are enjoying the spotlight a little too much.  And, during those extreme weather days, the channel plays one commercial after another because that's when people are watching. There's something about profiting from the demise of others that bothers me.  But the entire news business seems that way. Sharks feeding on minnows.

But enough of them.

I understand putting a temperature gauge in your backyard, or even a weather vane. I understand looking out the window to see if it's going to rain, or whether it will be cold or hot, mild or muggy.  All perfectly understandable actions to satisfy our curiosity.

"Normal May temperatures in DFW today, about 85 degrees, cloudy, but no rain expected."

What else do I need to know?

 

R J Matson

The New York Observer and Roll Call.

A (temporary) New World Order

Yesterday, my wife departed Fort Worth on a short trip to visit our son in Philadelphia.

She and I are more grandparents than parents these days, so when she is gone I am left in the house to fend for myself. I don't mind, in fact, I kind of like a few days to watch too much television, leave the potato chip bag on the coffee table, and find my books and magazines wherever it is that I had last left them.

I have a re-organizational ritual on occasions like this which, I am sure, is rooted in a male territorial instinct. Here it is:

1. I clean and reorganize the refrigerator. It doesn't need cleaning but I like to be able to easily get to the few things I want.
2. I do my laundry and stack the clean clothes on the dryer. Why bother putting them away?
3. Bathroom. I find the biggest towel I can and throw it on the floor. It's more masculine, like a locker room.
4. I put the dishes away and close up the dishwasher for the duration. No need for dishes now, I'm going to paper plates, baby.
5. Clear the kitchen counters of all bric-a-brac. Bricabrac is defined as anything that looks nice but serves no purpose and just gets in my way.
6. Pull out a roll of paper towels, place on kitchen counter. I'm feeling better already.
7. Rearrange the living room furniture to maximize comfort and to minimize extraneous movement (see photo above). The goal is for everything that is frequently needed to be at arms length of the couch. I then run through a mental checklist of the near-couch necessities:

Books -- check,
Crossword puzzles -- check,
Pens -- got 'em,
TV Remote on coffee table -- check
Wall Street Journal -- check.
Laptop on coffee table, check.
Baseball schedule and basketball playoffs for the week. AOK.

 The final step in this domicilic-bonding is to go shopping for items that I particularly like. Not that the wife doesn't keep me supplied, but I always need a few things. This time I went to my favorite store, Dollar General, and picked up the following (see picture): paper plates, bag of dry pinto beans (not sure why I bought those), jalapeno papers, cereal, lots of cereal, paper towels, albacore tuna in water, Triscuit wheat crackers.

Upon completion of all these things, I look at all that I have done, and declare, "It is good." Male order has been restored. I have re-marked my territory.

In a couple days I'll be complaining about it being too quiet, but for now, I'm ready for some serious time-wasting.

(Miss you, dear, and I will clean up before you get back. Love, Me)